


decorum

by painting



Category: Uncategorized - Fandom
Genre: Common Cold, Musicians, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 20:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painting/pseuds/painting
Summary: There's a remarkable juxtaposition present when the country's most arrogant musical prodigy admits to having come down with a head cold.





	decorum

**Author's Note:**

> if you have no idea who these people are then this is the fic for you

The first time Roland sneezes in front of her, Keevy keeps her head down, continuing to pack up her fiddle and bow as she pleasantly hums a reflexive “bless you” without a second thought.

Roland, no doubt just as reflexively, murmurs a staggeringly ordinary “thank you” in response.

Keevy continues to collect her things without a moment's worry, because a sneeze isn't normally worth even half that much. It’s only when he sniffles demurely just a moment later that Keevy becomes conscious of the situation. Who would have expected someone like Roland to participate in that kind of a convention? she thinks to herself.

He continues to prove his refinement throughout the day, matching his pace with hers as they walk through the campground side-by-side, offering to pay for her drink, making sure she has just as much room on the table -- and then on the bed -- as he does, and finally, without a shred of finesse, stammering through a bashful thank you toward her after she kisses him (really). If anything, he's gone overboard with the whole of it. Keevy is pleasantly surprised.

The memory of such a mundane realisation comes back to Keevy months later, during the autumn following the start of Roland's job as an advisor at the music school. He builds clout rapidly among the board working alongside him as they recognise his merit, heaps of invaluable knowledge and intuition fostering the success of others just as much as his own. It's impressive to watch, seeming almost like he was born to do it. It's nice to see him smiling for a change when they meet up at sponsored performances, the pride of a sculptor showing itself through the warranted dignity of his posture.

But his passion works him hard, and Roland's regularly concealed sweetness suddenly threads itself through his behavior when he inevitably comes down with a cold.

And doesn't say anything about it.

Naturally.

Why would he? 

Even so, it doesn't take long for the cat to pounce from the bag, and in congruence with their usual pattern, Keevy takes on the responsibility of addressing a problem and says something first.

"Are you ill?" is how she does it, immediately after she suspects that something might be wrong. Coughing a few times in the morning isn't cause for recognition, but someone clearing their throat every time they speak certainly is. Roland isn't a singer.

He blinks at her and looks genuinely, thoroughly confused, stopped in his tracks and caught off-guard as Keevy abruptly halts their routine argument regarding the nature of acoustic percussion. They can always return to it later.

"Why do you ask?" he says, still testy and suddenly rather awkward, slow to switch gears.

Just a few months of actually being close to him hasn't given Keevy a chance to learn the details of Roland's inner workings and personal patterns, but the unexplained magnetism between them informs her just enough.

"Ugh! You so are. Listen to you," she says. "Wow. So that's why you said no to sharing my drink earlier."

"I said no because you _ load _ your coffee with sugar syrup," Roland corrects. "It tastes terrible."

"First of all, I do not," Keevy says. She crosses her arms to defend her palette. "I only do that as a treat; you're just fussy. It's delicious. Second of all, you could have probably used it. I bet your throat hurts, doesn't it?"

"It's just a bit of a cold," Roland says, not answering her. "It'll pass in a few days."

So he tries to be careful as they wait it out, making an attempt at refusing to kiss her (which is effective for about half a second), turning to face away from her when he needs to sneeze (into his hand), and properly disposing of all of the tissues he uses (sometimes after leaving them out on his desk for upwards of thirty minutes. Poor guy). 

It's funny: the first night after he'd gotten sick, Roland had spouted off at least a dozen facts about the unknown ways people are accidentally spreading disease. Like by sitting too close to a window on public transit, or not washing their hands after coming in from outside. He'd even said something about how everyone would do well to wipe off the surface of a phone before holding it to their ear; who does that?

Maybe he has so much unnecessary information in his head that it's clouding out all of the simple methods that stem from common sense. It'd explain a lot.

Still, it's the effort that counts.

"_Bless _ you," Keevy emphasises on the third morning, during which the infection has made itself at home with no signs of letting up. If anything, its effect on him is getting worse-- he's probably sneezed at least a dozen times since he opened his eyes an hour ago, and he was very obviously fed up with it after the first. "Why on earth are you going to work today? You should be in bed."

"I have to go to that audition this afternoon," Roland says. He sniffles and it sounds absolutely miserable, like he's just going to be stuck blowing his nose all day with no reprieve, exactly like he had been the night before. It's hard to watch. "You remember. It was scheduled months ago, you're supposed to be going, too."

"Yep! So you don't need to come." Keevy smiles and pushes on his chest, but Roland doesn't move.

He sniffles again. "I'd argue that it means I need to come even more," he says, voice broken and congested. "I feel fine. It's only a head cold."

"Oh, God." Keevy rolls her eyes. Not this again. "Well, have some tea or something, at least."

He sneezes while the kettle's on, twice in a row into his forearm and then later his shoulder, and while he's usually just a tad loud about it -- not exceptionally so, but the kind you can probably hear from the next room over behind a closed door -- these sets practically wrench him in half and leave Roland sighing and wilted afterward, like they've been demanding far more energy from him than he has to spare. It seems pretty exhausting, but if he wants _ that _to be part of everyone else's day, too, then, well, fine. So be it.

Roland pours sixteen ounces of earl grey into a thermos and the two of them leave his place together. He sips from it and shivers and Keevy listens to him coughing even after he's locked up all cozy in the driver's seat his van.

And then they part ways at the start of their arrival. Keevy doesn't come to the institute often, but she's supposed to transcribe some of her own sheet music for a student this morning and, of course, attend the violinist's audition in the afternoon. She's anticipating the first several hours of her day to be extraordinarily dull, and her mind occasionally wanders to speculate whether Roland is going to give in and go home before they're supposed to meet back up again.

He doesn't, and by noon, he's barely looking more awake than he had been at six this morning. His eyes are puffy with exhaustion, the rims of his nostrils chapped and pink. There's even a little water in his eyes, like the congestion has nowhere else to go and is actually just irritating him that much.

"Is she running late?" Keevy asks as she presses down the auditorium's seat cushion to sit down next to him.

"You are," Roland answers. He's breathing with his mouth open, his eyes half lidded like he's about to doze off, but Keevy shrugs happily at his reprimand.

"How are you feeling?" she asks in response. Without warning, she reaches a hand out to check his forehead, which is fun because Roland is pretentious and a renegade and doesn't mind PDA at work in the slightest. He might often forget to be aware that it's inappropriate, just because his focus is in all the wrong places. "I think you might have a little fever."

"Well, then that's how I'm feeling," he decides.

Keevy winces sympathetically when he pulls a very wrinkled tissue from his pocket and just swipes it underneath his nose. He probably ran out on his way over.

She winces again when Roland has to call out to the violinist, his voice splintering when he croaks out the customary "whenever you're ready" and barely sounds like himself. It's a shocker that she could even hear him from the stage.

Like a true aural freak, she doesn't seem to have any trouble understanding because she doesn't hesitate to begin playing beautifully, precise and talented and slow. The admissions board often stays silent and takes notes during these performances preceding a brief interview, but Keevy prefers to sit back and give the musician her full attention. It's the least biased way to experience music, she's found, but she has encountered no one other than Roland who has shared that particular opinion. His devotion speaks to his passion.

It's a little distracting, the way he keeps sniffling, which is another reason Keevy had suggested he stay back for the day. It's not like you can blow your nose while someone is playing a song just for you, and the other judges can hear him just as well as Keevy can.

Roland squeezes his nose a few times, on and off for a good handful of seconds, before he finally gives in to a sneeze. She's never heard him try to hold one in like that before (and he didn't do a very good job of it, either). Ouch.

None of Roland's colleagues look over, and the violinist doesn't stop. Comfortingly, Keevy whispers, "Bless you."

Roland looks over and nods at her to communicate a thank you. He twitches an incredibly tight smile and turns back to the performance.

Keevy follows his lead and watches as Roland's shoulders relax just a little. For the moment, she supposes it's good enough.


End file.
